


you wrap your heart in gold (you tell me it’s treasure)

by lightyears



Series: bring me the horizon [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Begging, Cunnilingus, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fingering, Multiple Orgasms, Sex, Smut, pirate!Bellamy, princess!clarke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23612953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightyears/pseuds/lightyears
Summary: After yet another battle on Captain Blake’s ship, in which Clarke is locked in her cabin to await her fate, she resolves to never be left so defenceless again, and demands Bellamy have her armed and properly trained.Instead, he decides she’s in need of a reminder of all he’s granted her on his ship.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: bring me the horizon [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1393948
Comments: 25
Kudos: 285
Collections: Bellarke smut





	you wrap your heart in gold (you tell me it’s treasure)

**Author's Note:**

> wow, this has taken me over a year to write and right now i just feel like frodo at the end of lotr saying "it's done"
> 
> i love this verse, but i will pre-warn by saying it's only going to have two parts, so this is it! you should definitely read the first part before this for full appreciation of what the og prompt of this fic was - begging for dick! (kinda)
> 
> enjoy!!

The handle of the dagger digs into the flesh of her palm, her fingers wrapped so tight it’s become almost painful as the minutes have passed by. A soft aching pulse, and yet Clarke doesn’t dare slacken her grip, allow herself to lose even an ounce of her concentration.

She can feel the rapid beat of her heart in the pulsing at her throat, can hear it in the same muted way she can the waves crashing onto the side of the ship. Her mind matches the pace as she continues to wait out her fate, hidden behind the dresser she managed to push against her door, ready to defend herself as best as she’s able — though she knows her efforts will likely be futile if it comes to that; history has already proven to her that a locked door and a strong will won’t hold off those seeking to capture her.

History has already proven to her that only one thing will.

The thought sparks a swelling of indignation, as has become customary: a hot flush prickling at her skin, a quick and sharp twist within her chest. It’s never pleasant, the reminder that she’s never truly held her life within her own grasp, the reminder of the position of utter vulnerability she’s been forced into — initially by the kingdom, who deemed her status far too high to allow anything as undignified as combat training, and now by Bellamy, whose opinion of her status has not influenced his decision to keep her untrained so much as his desire to antagonise her.

It was the first true error she made with him, early on, a mere week into their arrangement. With the pride that had remained from forcing his hand mixing with the rush of fear witnessing her first battle on his ship had bloomed, she’d miscalculated, requested something of him that she shouldn’t have: the courtesy of a weapon, and of the training to allow her to properly wield it; unwittingly showing her hand, just as Bellamy had believed she’d done during their first meeting, though this time without the safety of an argument he could not find advantage in.

Huddling behind her dresser now, the sounds of battle filtering down from the deck and into her room — canons blasting and people shouting and swords killing — the memory of his expression that day swells easily within her mind. Amused and cocksure, his pleasure in denying her request clear with the crooked curve of his mouth and the condescending glint in his darkened eyes.

“I don’t think it’d be wise to equip you with such knowledge, princess,” he’d said, humour laced throughout his voice, even as he pressed a cloth to a wound he’d received to his abdomen. “Besides, I think your hand would be better served wrapped around a _different_ shaft, and you surely can’t deny me that.”

Despite the immense desire to argue, she’d recognised the warning threaded into his words, the reminder of their agreement, of the role that she herself negotiated her way into. Clearly it was one that didn’t allow anything so considerate as protection in a greater form than being locked away in her cabin to await her potential death, and clearly it was one she’d have to become used to: days ran into weeks, and those weeks into months, and with six now having lived on this ship, Clarke’s grown familiar with her current position, hiding in the midst of yet another battle.

Though, the dagger in her hand is a newer courtesy she’s been granted, a couple of weeks ago, after the ship was attacked and an adversary made their way down to her cabin. They were killed before they managed to kick down her door, and Clarke was familiar enough with the sound of Bellamy’s footfall, the labour of his breath, that she knew where her gratitude should lie; though after, he never mentioned it, and nor did she, the weapon simply left for her on her pillow once she returned to her room that evening.

A small comfort to keep on her person, certainly, though it doesn’t quell the racing of her heart, the fear and resentment it pumps through her body with each beat.

Nothing does, in this state of alarm, stretching time into a suspended haze, the only indication that it’s moving at all the dip of the sun in the sky, and when the ship finally does turn quiet again, Clarke feels exhausted by the mere thunder of emotion within her. It’s a sudden, jarring change from the cacophony of battle, though her body doesn’t acclimate to the shift, too well attuned to the memory of this very feeling, months ago and yet a lifetime ago: in the grand chambers on her ship, hidden in a small pocket of her room, unsure of where the claim to victory lay.

With Bellamy then, and, while a jagged feeling of guilt cuts through the relief of a familiar knock on her door, a familiar voice calling out to her, with Bellamy now.

The heaviness of her breath rushes from her lungs all at once, and her hand trembles as she finally allows her grip to loosen around the dagger, place it on her bed. 

Murphy’s has been an unexpected companionship — as close to a friend as she’ll allow herself to recognise of a pirate who was party to her very capture — and Clarke cannot deny she’s glad to see him when she pushes the dresser from her door and opens it. A few cuts from what she can see, a few bruises blooming on his pale skin, but for the most part unharmed.

“Have fun down here?” He asks, with the usual dry edge to his voice, and a small and unwitting smile pulls at her lips, despite the indignation still coursing within her.

“Plenty,” Clarke says, stepping back to allow him entry, and as has become their usual routine, he begins helping her right the disarray of her room. “Though I imagine not quite as much as you had on deck. It did sound like quite the lively affair.”

Her voice wavers slightly, the remnants of fear lingering, but Murphy doesn’t acknowledge it, simply barking a laugh at her comment; like Bellamy, he seems to find amusement in her flippancy.

They finish working together in a familiar silence, one that allows her body to ease back to the semblance of normal she now lives in, until her heart’s slowed and her limbs no longer ache from their earlier confinement, and it’s not until Murphy turns to make his leave that Clarke finally voices the words they both know she will.

“The captain?” She asks, not allowing any change to her voice, nor her expression — lest the kindness he’s shown so far in overlooking the implications of her question meet a swift and humiliating end — and with the same predictability she shows, he answers with the wry words she’s grown used to.

“He’ll live to see another day, princess,” he says, and to her shame, the relief within her surges once more.

It’s a betrayal that’s grown more familiar to her than she wishes, one that cannot be undone — a raw response that reveals a truth she’s unable to reconcile, that works to claim a part of her that she’s desperate to hold onto. That there is _any_ part of her that has the capacity to feel anything beyond disgust is treacherous, and yet even to herself she cannot deny that the half year in the captain’s company has provoked a tangle of confusing and conflicting emotions.

Ones she is unable to dictate, of course, but thankfully, her time away from her kingdom has not diminished the abilities it forged in controlling them, compartmentalisation and redirection still coming to her with an ease she is grateful for.

Pushing any thoughts of relief from her mind, she grasps onto the anger she can justify — over her fear and exhaustion, over the resentment of her forced helplessness — allowing it to spread greedily throughout her body, to re-centre her.

To be her focus for the remainder of the afternoon, until Bellamy calls her to his quarters, as he always does.

Resolve hardening, Clarke sheaths his dagger at her hip, a plan sparking within her mind, with the same fire as that of her indignation.

Come tonight, he’ll not be denying her any further.

_+_

Nobody’s coming for her.

With the sun finally set and the faint, pearly glow of the moon reflecting in calm waters, Clarke allows the knowledge to truly take root. She’d suspected, of course, earlier in the evening, when Raven fetched her for a dinner she’d ordinarily spend with Bellamy, and yet, within a small part of her grown so used to their routine, the belief that he would still summon her remained. Now, over an hour since she bid Raven goodnight, it’s clear her anticipation is needless.

It’s a surprise that she should be grateful for, she recognises; one that should draw a sense of relief that after six long months, she’s being granted an evening of solitude. And yet, instead, with the indignation that she allowed to fester in her time awaiting Bellamy’s call, it’s outrage. For a multitude of offences: that despite all claims of her newfound freedom on this ship, she remains to be a maid waiting upon her master’s whims; that the heavens appear to have found their humour, given Bellamy’s audacity not to call for her now that she’s resolved to demand something more for herself.

That shamefully, she’s grown used to his particular brand of company each evening, and without it, a restlessness has blossomed uncomfortably within her: a hum of energy that makes it difficult to sit still, a warm pulsing low at her core she knows will only worsen.

That, Clarke pushes away, steadfastly ignores; it’s too close to longing, the way her body thrums with the acute awareness of his absence, is beginning to ache in ways it never used to, crave things she was always told it most certainly shouldn’t, and thinking of the fact for too long will only lead to a shameful truth she’s not ready to confront.

The others, however…

An enticing thought swells within her mind, and Clarke moves to the door of her cabin and enters the hall before she’s able to think better of it.

The others, however, are transgressions she can seek Bellamy out to rectify without shame. Not to ease an ache fuelled by sinful desire, but to regain an authority over her life that she never should’ve forfeited.

Resolve stretches through her, sharp and fortifying, and for once she allows herself to give in to an impulsivity that growing up, she was always taught to ignore. Beginning the familiar route to the captain’s quarters, her mind again plays through the plan she crafted earlier, fingers passing over the handle of the dagger at her hip as she does so, its touch familiar now, an anchoring sort of comfort. Celebrations of the day’s victory continue throughout the ship — bottles of rum and drunken singalongs shared amongst a rowdy crew of pirates that, after six months, she’s warmed to, that on a different occasion, she might’ve been tempted to join — yet she ignores them now in favour of a more important objective, slipping through the merriment swiftly, and thankfully, without interruption, winding her way up to the quarterdeck until she reaches his room.

She pushes into it without pause, finding Bellamy inside, as she suspected, though not already engaged in discussions with his second, or even in the company of his celebrating crew.

Instead, alone, stretched out in one of his grand chairs, a book in one hand and a bottle of what she suspects is rum in the other.

Indignation surges shamefully through her at once, the knowledge that he’s not otherwise engaged, but has instead chosen a night of solitude over her company an insult that lands with an ease she wishes it didn’t.

His gaze meets her own, and a long beat passes between them, the air thickening with a familiar tension around them. He’s shirtless, though she’s no longer scandalised by the sight of muscled, golden skin as she first was, and when she allows herself to properly take him in she notices a bandage wrapped poorly around his arm. A treacherous flicker of concern has her chest tightening, though she resolutely ignores it, instead notes it as something to use to her advantage.

One she suspects she’ll need, given the calculation that flickers across Bellamy’s face as he takes her presence in, as though he has already concluded her intention in coming here.

“Princess,” he finally says, still with that same tone after all these months, mockery and amusement laced into the richness of his voice; he seems to find endless enjoyment reminding her of her previous status. Setting his book aside, he lets his gaze run over her, a slow and weighted indulgence she’s grown used to. He immediately spots the dagger sheathed at her hip, though doesn’t acknowledge it with anything further than a twitch of his lips. “It appears you’ve again lost your way,” he continues. “Barging into my room unannounced and uninvited; perhaps I need to arrange a guard to escort you on this ship, as we originally discussed.”

Despite her intentions to lead immediately with her demands, she can’t help but rise to the bait of his words, the itch to match the sharpness of his tongue far too enticing. “Your concern would be more easily remedied by remembering to bar your door,” she says pertly, prompting something akin to pride to flash in his expression — though she doesn’t allow herself to properly recognise it, nor the responding warmth that blooms within her chest.

“Yet that would deprive me of such entertainment as this.” His mouth tugs into a dangerous grin, a glint of amusement entering his eyes. After considering her for another moment, he tips his head, granting her the point. “I suppose for the purposes of _privacy_ , perhaps you can rectify that for me now.”

The taunting edge to his remark doesn’t go unnoticed, though Clarke doesn’t acknowledge the meaning underlying his words. “This hardly requires privacy,” she assures, stepping further into his quarters. “I don’t intend on this visit taking long.”

Drawing himself forward in his chair, Bellamy watches her with a weighted gaze for a long beat. It’s almost unnerving, the ease in which he’s able to command his space, though Clarke’s careful not to let her expression crease with an unease he’d surely find amusement in. “I’m almost as intrigued as I was the first time you interrupted me here, princess,” he says at last, finally getting to his feet, the lazy confidence he exudes — already furthered by his roguish smile and state of undress — growing with each slow step until he’s standing over her, a mere foot away. “Though I doubt I’ll be receiving anything quite so… _enticing_ , this time.”

The rumble of the words whisper across her skin, but Clarke ignores them, instead granting herself a moment to draw the steely determination she found earlier back to her centre. She reminds herself of her frustration and her indignation, of the position of absolute vulnerability he’s forced her into, of the fear that’s grown so familiar in her time on this ship, that with each and every battle, she anticipates it with an exhausting resentment.

Anger swells hot within her chest, prickling and vengeful and, as she tilts her head back, meets Bellamy’s cocksure gaze, Clarke welcomes it.

“I suspect not, Captain Blake,” she says, the words she’d practiced in her head finally coming to fruition, cool and resolute; not an arduous speech, but a concise demand. “As both a resident and a _princess_ upon your ship, I demand I be given proper training. I will no longer allow my safety to be placed so completely out of my own hands.”

The shock Clarke had been anticipating, even planned for, doesn’t come; instead, Bellamy’s mouth tips up once more. “I’ve certainly missed hearing your _demands_ ; you know I find enjoyment in reminding you of your place. And, as you’ve so politely reminded me, as a princess, it’s not in battle.”

“As a princess, it’s not as a pirate king’s personal _whore,_ either,” she retorts sharply; though she loathes to think of herself in such terms, her words are weighed with an undeniable truth, and with her current objective, they’re ones she’s willing to use in her favour. “Yet despite this, we both know my role on this ship. So do not insult my intelligence by feigning care for my safety, Captain Blake. At the very least you can grant me the dignity in acknowledging that it’s to keep me fearful. To keep me _dependent._ ”

A newfound intensity flashes across Bellamy’s face, and Clarke can’t help her sharp inhale as he draws himself somehow even larger, taut muscle, golden skin and sheer power brushing against her chest. “I’d never dare to insult your intelligence, princess,” he says, a roughness she can feel reverberating within her chest entering his voice. He steps forward, moving into her space and forcing her to match it behind her, back towards the edge of his cabin. “Though I will question it, in this instance; what pretty words do you believe will be sufficient in persuading me this time?”

_No pretty words,_ her mind whispers, though she doesn’t voice the thought. Instead, with determination coursing through her, she executes her earlier devised plan: lifting her leg, she stamps a forceful heel to his foot as her hand meets his bandaged arm, fingers digging into his wounded flesh; hardly an honourable move, though she’s never known a pirate to fight fairly, and it works to the advantage she was hoping.

Bellamy grimaces immediately, and in the moment of his pained distraction, Clarke grabs the dagger still sheathed at her hip and lifts it to his throat.

Surprise flashes across his face quickly, before settling into something pleased, perhaps even admiring. “Knew I shouldn’t have given that to you,” he says, though he doesn’t sound particularly regretful of the fact.

“Retrospection will not help you now.”

Bellamy’s grin is sharp, and though she suspects he can see through her bluff — she’s hardly in a position to actually _use_ this dagger, on a ship filled with his loyal crew — he at least grants her the courtesy in her semblance of control. “No, it appears not. I suspect the only thing that will is to see to your demands.”

“For once you’re speaking some sense,” Clarke says, her smile the sweet, patronising kind that, in her previous life, she would use on potential suitors — though she lets it harden into something with more steel quickly. Pressing the blade a little harder, until she feels the give of his flesh, she tilts her chin upwards, resolve and defiance meeting in words she had not planned, and yet come together with ease: “For once, you will do exactly what I want you to, Captain Blake; you will not deny me any longer.”

A long, drawn beat passes in a silence thick with tension, and it’s only when Bellamy’s expression flashes with a new sort of wicked delight that she recognises the error of her words, ones that have revealed a deeper desire than that to simply be properly trained.

He latches onto it immediately, gaze alight as he draws himself back to his usual large presence. “And what else have I been denying you, princess?” He asks roughly, an alluring quality to his voice, that seeks to draw a confession she’s not willing to give. “Is there something you’ve been wanting me to give to you?”

Despite her best efforts — despite the anger that’s still running hot through her veins and the fear that flutters within her chest whenever she’s reminded of her vulnerable reality — his words tug at the warm pulsing at her core, the one that’s grown used to his attention, now craves it with shameful need, and she falters. Barely a second, yet the waver in concentration is enough; Bellamy steps back and knocks the dagger from her hand between one breath and the next, crowding forward to regain his usual advantage before she can attempt anything further, pinning her to his cabin door.

His firm weight settles familiarly against her, expression absolutely sinful as his hands curl around each of her wrists, keeping them fixed by her side. “That was a clever trick, princess, I’ll give you that,” he says, low and deliberate, before leaning in, pressing his mouth close to her ear. “A lot of effort to gain my attention.”

A shiver runs down her spine even as she holds onto her indignation, two conflicting parts of her — her anger and her arousal — a confusing twist of heat at her core. “That’s not why I’m here.” 

His grip tightens, and he pulls back to look at her, expression dark and amused. “So you’ve explained,” he says, mockery clear in his voice. “It seems that without my company in the evening your mind runs positively amuck, princess. Devising all sorts of plans; convincing yourself of all sorts of lies.” His grin tugs dangerously. “That you do not enjoy yourself here. That your life is not better on my ship than it was in your kingdom.”

“In my kingdom my mortality was not hung over my head each and every week.”

“No, only the expectations of a life you had no control over. One without the freedoms I’ve learnt so very quickly you yearn for. And no matter the offences you think I’ve committed, princess, I’ve allowed you to be free, have I not?” Her breath catches in her throat, her body humming with the shameful truth of his statement as the fire of her anger is claimed by that of another kind, and Bellamy’s gaze flashes darkly in recognition. Voice dropping to the rough, commanding type he’s fond to use with her, he finishes with the words he knows will best any of her own: “Answer me.”

And with that command, any advantage Clarke may’ve still had is forfeit; she knows the position she negotiated for herself, and it’s still to serve him. Still to obey him.

Despite any demands she wishes to be met, that oath is something she must keep. “You have,” she says, and his smile sharpens.

“I have,” he agrees, a pleased gleam alight in his eyes, one she recognises is a response to her submission. It shifts quickly, though, as Bellamy contemplates her for a long, drawn moment, into something more wicked, a mischievous amusement. “But perhaps, princess,” he finally says, weighing each of his words with a deliberate purpose that reveals a desire of provocation, “you simply need to be reminded of the type of freedom I’ve granted you here.”

Confusion and heat swell within her in warring measures, though, certain he’s hoping for a reaction, Clarke’s careful not to play into the outlandish nature of his words. Ones he’s never spoken before, not even something she recognises in their intent: as though this is a gift he is offering her, and not the payment of a debt she still owes for her people’s lives.

A traitorous part of her thrums with excitement at the prospect, but she pushes it away quickly, too familiar with the captain to believe it. Instead, she reaches for the safety of a line that will not reveal any more than she already has: “Whatever your desires,” she says, the words coming to her with an ease born of repetition, a convenient truth to shield herself behind — one that does not require any reflection as to the quickening of her heart, nor the growing ache between her legs, “I’m bound to fulfil them.”

His laugh is patronising, though he doesn’t call her on the growing weakness of the words. “You are,” he says instead, and with his gaze continuing to hold hers closely, carefully, he finally releases her from his grasp. Stepping back from her, he moves to the table deeper into his cabin, leaning against its edge, and it’s there that he watches her — still pressed against his door, grasping at what’s left of her indignation, so swiftly and easily running into an arousal that after six months, Bellamy’s mastered to draw — for a long moment, holding back a smile she can still see in the dark amusement of his eyes, before finally issuing a demand that she’s intimately familiar with: “Now, strip for me, princess.”

There’s no missing the authoritative edge that deepens his voice, one she recognises extends further than the single command, that warns her not to pursue any of her earlier objectives. That tells her his mind is now focused solely on what lies ahead of them tonight, and hers must be too.

She wishes it weren’t so easy to let it.

Yet, as the familiar rush of heat runs through her, something unknotting within her chest as she begins to follow his orders, she cannot deny her relief in knowing that the need thrumming through her will finally be tended to.

Though his words are surely a trick, an evening rarely passes without his mouth or fingers working her to release, and with that in mind, submission comes with shameful ease — one that is no longer reliant upon thoughts of the people she set free — as Clarke first frees her belt, and then brings her dress up and over her head.

The distinct weight of Bellamy’s gaze runs over each newly-revealed inch of skin, watching her closely, intensely, as her fingers tremble to unfasten the bindings of her corset and pull it free, as she slides her undergarments down from her hips, revealing herself for him completely. Silence settles between them for a long, lustful moment, tension swelling hot and thick. She feels the way it tugs at the pulse of need that first sparked hours ago now, when she realised Bellamy was not coming for her, drawing it out to stretch through the rest of her body enticingly. Her nipples flush to small peaks with it, slick arousal pooling between her thighs.

“Oh, I’m going to have fun with you tonight, princess,” Bellamy says, after a drawn moment, his appreciation clear in not only the roughness of his voice, but the way he thickens beneath his breeches; a response that once disgusted her, but now, shamefully, thrills her. “On my bed.”

The firmness of his tone is familiar, though the words completely foreign, his bed a comfort that, in the six months she’s been at his bidding, he’s not once extended to her. It’s another proclamation that cautions her — too obscure in its intent, a kindness she cannot believe to be genuine — yet despite her confusion, the heat spread through her aches for the indulgence.

Regardless, she has no choice but to obey.

Raising her chin — lest he find amusement in her unnerve — she crosses his chambers to the bed fitted into the cabin’s far corner; almost large enough to be fit for royalty, with big, fluffy pillows at the head and a thick burgundy quilt spread across, a luxury Clarke’s sure was stolen rather than earned. And yet, as she moves onto the bed on hands and knees, feels the soft, rich fabric beneath her touch — so close to the standard she was accustomed to in her previous life — a wicked feeling of indifference over the methods of acquirement passes through her.

An alarming reaction, though before her mind can latch too deeply onto the realisation of her shift in morality — one of many — the warm intensity of Bellamy’s presence behind her clouds it. It’s the only warning she gets before his hands are meeting her flesh and he’s pushing her flat onto the bed, flipping her over and leaving her sprawled on her back whilst he looms with debauched amusement.

He’s seen her like this plenty of times, and yet the hunger has never wavered; he drinks her in for a long, languid moment before finally leaning down, taking each of her ankles within his grasp and pushing her legs open slowly, exposing her centre to his greedy eyes — where she’s already wet with silky arousal, aching with a warm throb of need that’s craving to be fed.

Flushed with heat, she awaits the bark of laughter, the words of taunting amusement over finding her in such a desirous state. But they don’t come.

Instead, his mouth tugs into a pleased, wicked grin. “Such a pretty cunt,” he says, gaze flicking back up to her, again that mischief dark and alluring in his eyes. “Going to be treated so well as I remind my princess of how good she’s allowed to feel on my ship.”

Her breath catches in her throat, her body shuddering with a rush of arousal. They’re not the cruel words that she’s come to expect from him, instead ones laced with temptation, a warm possession as he refers to her as _his_ princess — a fondness he’s found ever since she allowed herself to play a parallel self that was unencumbered by propriety, that was allowed to indulge in every whim and want of her body — and they tug at her mind seductively, confusingly, as he drops to his knees at the foot of the bed.

Mouth finding her ankle, the unexpected softness of his lips a stark contrast to the roughness of his scruff of a beard, he continues with that same tone: “Does she need her cunt kissed and licked and cared for?”

Clarke draws a shaky breath, eyes falling shut to gain a moment of respite from the intensity of his presence. It’s a question he’d usually demand an answer for, yet again the expected words do not come; instead, after the deep, wicked chuckle of a wolf momentarily disguising himself as a sheep — the intent of which she’s still unclear — Bellamy continues further up the bed, his mouth trailing along the soft skin of her calf, his hands following closely.

A flicker of doubt enters her mind, over her certainty of his trickery. Growing with the heat that blooms under his touch and runs into the headiness of arousal at her core, all the while her mind struggles with the two incompatible truths: that this cannot truly be a kindness Bellamy’s offering — the opportunity for humiliation much too enticing for him to forfeit — and yet that he continues to crawl up her body without any demand of payment, even once he settles in the cradle of her thighs, his breath hot as it washes over her, right where she’s aching.

“Oh, princess,” he murmurs roughly, easing her thighs over his shoulders, bringing her that much closer to the warmth of his mouth. “Look at this gorgeous, royal pussy. Absolutely aching to be feasted upon.”

She can’t help the gasp that falls from her mouth as his lips brush over her inner thigh, a soft caress that sends a shiver up her body; he’s not wrong, in this regard, the warm throb between her thighs absolutely aching now, a desperation curled hot at her core, and despite the shame in acknowledging it even to herself, she can only hope her doubts are proven correct.

That Bellamy truly is going to remind her of this particular freedom, one she longs for with a wickedly growing intensity.

Smoothing his hands over her thighs and hips, his voice warms her in the same seductive way the roughness of his touch does. “Now,” he says in a low murmur, “for the ease in reminding you of all you’ve been given on my ship, I grant you permission to come as soon as you need, as many times as you need.”

Her mind lags as it works to put together words that hold sense individually into a statement that can be reconciled with her knowledge of the captain — who’s never given consent in this regard freely before, only ever teased it, granted it at the price of her pride — the implication of which doesn’t truly take root until he’s burying his face between her thighs and Clarke’s crying out in a mixture of pleasure and shock.

Her fingers curl tight in his quilt as the soft warmth of his tongue parts her folds and immediately finds the hot nub above her opening, the sharp, responding pulse of pleasure exactly what she needs after all these hours, perfect, if not for the inkling of unnerve his actions still draw within her mind.

Because there’s still no sense to it, this promise of Bellamy’s, and whilst she cannot find the advantage he’s trying to gain, she’s familiar enough with his nature to know there must be one. 

There always is.

And yet, as her mind and body war for attention, she cannot deny that the traitorous part of her grown so used to his touch doesn’t care, can only recognise the way it meets her own shameful needs. Feeding an ache that, after six months, he’s conditioned to spark alight daily, that he’s mastered to tend to; drawing out a pleasure so enticing it could overcome any disconcert, and, though her mind grasps at the indisputable fact that she _shouldn’t_ , with each heady pulse thrumming at her core, building to a climax that for the first time, she will not have to control, she allows it to.

Accepts his word as genuine and surrenders to his promise of release.

It’s with an ease she cannot think of that her unnerve is drawn away completely by a heady warmth that stretches from the curling tension between her legs through to the rest of her body.

One that only grows as she allows herself to sink into Bellamy’s hold and his words, as he sweeps his tongue over that pulsing, centred point again and again.

Heat flickers with each electric touch, curling into a pool of pressure with a swiftness that speaks to both the utter need pulled taut through her body, and Bellamy’s finesse in working her up hard and fast. A skill he's evidently aware of, matching her rapid build with growing speed and intent, coaxing that familiar flutter to her core in barely a few minutes, until she’s on the edge and his lips are moving to latch over her, sucking with a force intended to break her.

And, as he’s proven countless times before, wherever Bellamy’s intentions are placed, his success is inevitable. 

Hips jerking and thighs trembling, Clarke comes undone hard and sharp, crying out as he continues to work her with the persistent pull of his mouth, drawing her pleasure out in perfect, heated shocks that unravel the tension stretched through her body, until she’s soft and pliant in his hold.

A rarity he mirrors when he finally eases his mouth from her centre to run gentle kisses over her thighs and up to the swell of her stomach, waiting with an unaccustomed patience until her eyes flutter open and she meets his gaze, alight with satisfaction.

“Very good, princess,” he murmurs, a crooked grin tugging at his lips before he leans down to bite softly at her hipbone; an action she’d consider almost playful if that word could exist in the vocabulary describing to him. “Your cunt is fucking delectable, you know that? Could spend all day making you come on my mouth.”

The warmth of his praise sinks into her familiarly, meeting the hunger that, despite her release, still thrums steadily through her — greed a newfound trait Bellamy’s coaxed from her — and, emboldened by both her need and his words, she allows herself to speak with an authority she does not have: “And is that not what you’ve promised me, Captain Blake?” She asks, holding his gaze with a surge of brazenness.

His eyes darken with admiration, a slow smile growing as he watches her closely, intensely. “My, princess, it almost sounds as though you’re admitting to finding enjoyment in this,” he says, voice deep, enticing. Leaning down, his lips brush softly against the thatch of curls between her legs. “Admitting to wanting _more_.”

Heart quickening, she again finds a response that deflects the assertion: “I am simply reminding you of your word.”

His laugh vibrates at her core. “If you insist, princess,” he says, another opportunity for humiliation he’s forfeiting for reasons unknown. “In any case, you are correct. It did seem as though you needed a first, quick one, but I do intend on a few more before the night’s end.”

With those words, he resettles into the position that will allow them, and it’s with a jolt of pleasure that Clarke’s eyes are once again falling shut, her head meeting the softness of his pillow as his tongue again slides between her folds. It’s an indulgent, lavishing sweep, the beginning of a slow, burning build meant to tease, Bellamy’s lips and tongue and teeth working in ways she doesn’t truly understand, only knows are expertly made to draw a steadily growing tension at her core.

All at once a wicked curiosity overcomes her, the thought of this act of intimacy; it could be another to learn, to excel at — just like her cock sucking — if only there were someone to practice on. Perhaps Raven, or Harper, both of whose coy smiles have not gone unnoticed.

Her face flames as she realises what she’s thinking — both the language and the fantasy itself — body jerking in a combination of shock and pleasure as it tugs seductively at her mind, as Bellamy quickens his pace, working her with a growing keenness that speaks to his own enjoyment, before all at once, unexpectedly, he stiffens his tongue to dip into her properly. Heat rushes alongside a renewed wave of slick arousal, pooling at her core as he begins a familiar, ardent rhythm she can’t help but whimper in response to. A brand of admission she’d typically attempt to stifle, yet for once, with this act of kindness Bellamy’s adopting, she cannot bring herself to care for the consequences, and allows herself to be free with them.

Soft whines sound between pants for breath as he begins to work her in this new way, his hand trailing to meet his mouth in barely another minute, the familiar thickness of his fingers finding the hot nub he loves to torture her with. Already swollen and sensitive, she whines as he begins circling it with the same swiftness of his tongue, his arm moving to secure her hips when she begins to chase the combination of touches that has the pleasure curled at her core vibrating with surging intensity.

Her body thrums with greedy heat, each thrust of his tongue drawing her closer to the precipice of release, every swipe of his fingers an electric pulse that has her hips jerking, and all at once the grasp she has on the quilts beneath her is not enough of an anchor. Her hands move of their own accord, threading through Bellamy’s unruly mess of curls — much too soft to make any sense for a pirate king — and tightening, tugging him impossibly closer. 

His responding groan vibrates deliciously through her, and it’s with a rush of warmth that the coil at her centre reaches its limit, tension snapping and release once again flooding through her.

She cries out as he laps up her arousal greedily, holding her firm to his mouth even as she clenches down on him, as her body writhes within his grasp. Each shock of pleasure spreads from the points of his touch, heady and insistent as the slow-building tension crumbles into crests of unfurling heat, washing over her again and again as Bellamy works her with his tongue, until finally, he’s easing back, his fingers shifting to again massage her inner folds.

“Princess,” he says, voice roughened in a way that sends a shiver through her. “Look at me.”

It’s his first demand since ordering her to strip, and she complies with the ease of both familiarity and blissed-haze. His chin and mouth are coated in her arousal, though she’s quick to focus on his dark, wolfish gaze, watching her closely. A purposeful interest that makes sense when, as the aftershocks of pleasure continue to run through her, his fingers replace the work of his tongue, and slide into her.

“Fuck,” she hears herself whimper, though the word does not feel like her own, too improper for what she’d allow herself in her right mind.

As it is, with the sweet stretch of him pressing into her, his fingers curling to hit that perfect, drugging spot, she wouldn’t currently consider herself to be in her right mind.

Bellamy’s grin tugs wickedly as he drinks in her responsiveness to his touch, the shudder that rolls through her body, the inviting tilt of her hips, and where he brought her up slowly last time, his impatience now has him thrusting quickly from the beginning. “That’s it, princess,” he murmurs, working her with an intensity that has her thrumming with excited pleasure. “Greedy little thing, that royal pussy, isn’t it?”

Embarrassment flushes her cheeks, though the denial that intrinsically crawls up her throat doesn’t get the opportunity to be heard, replaced instead by a broken whine when he dips down to again suck the abused nub into the warmth of his mouth.

Whatever her words, they’d have been false anyhow, because even to herself she cannot deny the greed somehow still ablaze throughout her, and at this moment, the energy it’d require to do so is being redirected to a much more pleasurable cause.

Tension pulling tight at her core at once, Clarke’s mind grows hazy as she chases release with the brazen rock of her hips, her hands again curled tight in Bellamy’s hair to keep him locked where she needs — kissing at her, fingers pressing over and over against that sweet spot — and it’s just as the last of her previous climax eases that a third crests over it, bringing her to a new height of release, almost unbearable in its intensity.

Pleasure swells hot at her core, stretching with a ferocity that has her entire body trembling in his hold, crumbling with utter overwhelm. A moan slips from her mouth, embarrassingly obscene in its pitch and volume. An outlet matched by the arch of her back and the curl of her fingers and toes, the tight convulsions that keep Bellamy’s fingers in place as he works her body through the high, clouding her mind completely with release, and it’s with hazy half-awareness that, after he’s drawn her through the waves of heady warmth, she feels his fingers slow and ease from her, his mouth finally drawing back, a parting, soft kiss pressing over the sensitive bud he’s played with without relent.

Finally he moves from the position he settled in to coax her to the writhing mess she now is, shifting further up her body, lips brushing over her flushed skin — keeping her alight in a way that he’s mastered, in a way that, despite her growing tender under his touch, she still craves with an incomprehensible need — until he’s hovering directly over her, hands placed either side of her shoulders, heat pouring from his body and sinking into her own.

“Sufficient reminder, princess?” Bellamy asks, and, mind too clouded to be anything but truthful, Clarke nods, eyes fluttering open to watch as he drinks her in hungrily, his laugh low and rough. “Yes, it appears so. Sweet cunt fucking adored it, grinding against my mouth like that.”

Any humiliation the statement would typically evoke is smothered by the thrum of warmth still stretched through her, and all Clarke can do is nod again, drawing another laugh from Bellamy, a lack of cruelty in it that would disconcert her if she weren’t already filled to the brim with everything else.

“So agreeable. Finally the trick of coaxing you to such a state has illuminated itself,” he continues, amusement laced in the roughness of his voice, “ _treasuring you in this way._ Now, do you want to taste the sweetness of your pussy, princess?”

Clearly Bellamy’s observation of Clarke’s agreeability is true, her immediate thought of him and his evident enjoyment in watching her taste herself, and all at once a sharp, wicked desire to please him surges within her, to meet his keenness with her own. Without speaking, she opens her mouth, an invitation that requires no further consent, and he takes it immediately, gaze flashing with debauched delight as he brings the two fingers he worked her with and slides them past her lips.

“Suck, princess.”

Closing her eyes, Clarke does as ordered: lips closing around his fingers, cheeks pulling in tight, tongue lapping up her own arousal. She feels Bellamy’s responding growl all over, a low, primal sound that acts as a line running directly to her own ardency, mouth working on him as though her taste is as intoxicating as it now is familiar, until she’s almost chased it away completely, and, so focussed on the act, she doesn’t notice the way his fingers begin to press both harder and deeper, not until she feels them sharp at the back of her throat and gags.

Alarm surging within her, her eyes fly open as she struggles to breathe for a drawn beat, meeting Bellamy’s gaze instantly, a shudder of surprise running through her when she does.

Because gone is the undercurrent of warmth within it, the calculating wickedness she’s so familiar with returning, and as it slices through the pleasured haze wrapped around her, drawing the cloudiness from her mind and bringing her back to herself with a jarring swiftness, Clarke knows that whatever ruse he’s been playing since his promise has come to a sudden end.

He lets his fingers linger uncomfortably — _purposefully_ — watching with dark entertainment as she tempers her instinct to fight the intrusion, before finally pulling them free. “Sorry, princess,” he says, rough and unreservedly insincere, a sharp smile tugging at his mouth as she sucks in a rattled breath. “Couldn’t resist. Opportunities to surprise you in such a delectable state of vulnerability are just so rare to present themselves.”

The words are amused, though there’s a slight edge she recognises is intended to provoke, and as his narrowing gaze betrays his own eagerness for a reaction, Clarke resolves not to allow him the satisfaction.

Outrage would only play into his assertion of power, the reminder of the control he holds over her.

Instead, lifting her chin, Clarke meets his words, not with indignation, but accusation. “And when have you allowed yourself not to be opportunistic?” She asks, voice slightly raspy from the intrusion of his fingers, though she keeps it as steady as she does her gaze.

At her challenge, Bellamy’s eyes flash with that same hint of pride she’s growing steadily familiar with, his mouth tugging into a dangerous, enticing grin. “Runs in my blood, princess,” he says, voice deep, but with an evenness that tells her his statement holds a truth that’s not only long known, but that he’s pleased with. He lets the words settle for a drawn moment, with their gazes locked, before finally leaning down. Clarke fights the shiver that threatens to run down her spine as his mouth brushes against her ear, and his voice drops to a hoarse whisper. “But do not fool yourself into believing that it does not also run in yours.”

Her heart pounds within her chest, the comparison he’s drawing tugging at something buried deep inside of her.

Something she cannot confront.

“That is absurd, Captain Blake.”

A bark of laughter sounds, rough and patronising, as Bellamy draws himself back up to his usual breadth, large and imposing as he looks down at her. “Oh, princess,” he says, amusement and condescension running together as his gaze sweeps over her face. “Did you not seek me out for your own personal desires only hours after my ship was attacked? Did you not make use of my injury to gain advantage after demanding something that was not yours to demand?”

Heat rushes to her already flushed skin at the accusations, Clarke’s eyes flicking to the bandage still wrapped around his arm, where her fingers sought wounded flesh in an attempt to gain control, though, as she meets his darkened gaze again, his grin sharpening, she knows the more damnatory ones are yet to come.

“Did you not accept my offerings eagerly,” he continues, watching her with wicked delight, “to tend to the cravings of your body? Did you not let your sweet, royal cunt be pleasured by the pirate you claim to hate?”

Her throat works as, shamefully, inexplicably, his assertion draws another wave of heady warmth through her. While her mind is no longer clouded with the overwhelm of pleasure, her body remains alight with heat, a sinful ache of need, and, as Bellamy shifts on top of her — slowly, purposefully — allowing her to properly feel the hardened length of him between the cradle of her thighs, it’s increasingly clear that he recognises the fact.

A soft breath rushes past her lips as that familiar slickness pools at her core.

Bellamy’s gaze flashes, and Clarke realises that even through his breeches, he can feel the very effect of his words.

“You may have had a fancy title before your name, princess,” he says finally, his voice low, resolute. “And a pretty crown resting upon your head. But that same opportunistic greed you claim of me, sits right here too.” Without any strain of effort, he holds himself above her with one arm to press his opposite hand to her chest, right over her heart. “That same hunger for _more,_ ” he continues, “it runs in you just as it runs in me. As it runs in every single person on this ship. It’s pirate, princess. And so are you. You’ve just not allowed yourself to give in to the truth of your nature.”

The rapid beat of her heart is mirrored in the pulsing at her throat as Bellamy rounds off his speech, and, beneath the solidness of his weight, the intoxicating feel of his warmth, Clarke knows that she should be pushing him off of her. Responding with words of denial and disgust and leaving his cabin with a vow never to satisfy his needs again, no matter the fate the declaration hands her.

And yet, as his assertion settles between them, Bellamy’s gaze alight and intense as it holds her own, the words do not come.

And, as one beat turns to two, three, and then four, and Clarke has not made any attempts to move, his mouth again tugs into a satisfied grin, the full effect of his imposing presence feeding into the heat simmering within her veins as he places his hand beside her shoulder once again.

“Remember what I said, princess,” he says, a pleased lilt warming the roughness of his voice, and then, without warning, his hips are rolling into her own, and Clarke whimpers as the movement tends to the ache at her core — even if only momentarily — as simultaneously, finally, all that had not made sense earlier is suddenly illuminated.

This was his true objective, the reason for his softness tonight, his uncharacteristic kindness. To coax her from the shackles of her reserve, of her pride, with each reminder of the freedom he’s granted — each lick, each kiss, each wave of release — in the hopes that ultimately, the temptation to give in to her own growing desire would become too much.

The one that he’s attempted to have her surrender to for months now.

The one that he won’t grant without the proper declaration of that very surrender, a price he set within the first week of their arrangement:

_Only once you beg._

In the six months that she’s lived on his ship, in which she’s drawn his body to release with her mouth and hands more times than she can count, in which he’s reciprocated with the same ministrations, it’s been a price far too high to pay.

Though, considering the pleasured haze clouding her mind earlier, the hot need thrumming between her legs, Clarke’s not certain that if he’d asked it of her only ten minutes prior, she’d have denied him.

“You’d have had a much easier time convincing me earlier,” she says finally, her voice a soft husk, though, surprisingly, she’s able to hold his gaze without the expected humiliation. With his intent clear, a sudden surge of boldness has taken root in her chest in its stead, as though the desire to match his candid words with her own supersedes the desire to deny them.

Bellamy chuckles, his head shaking slightly. “That’s not how this works, princess,” he says, the dark glint that begins to flicker in his eyes revealing his delight in explaining how it _does_ work. “I may’ve played nice to get you in this pretty, little state, to have had your pussy fucking my fingers, fucking my face as best it could in its greed. But that’s not who you’ll fuck, princess.” His pause is brief, but weighted, as his gaze sweeps hungrily over her face, as he allows tension to grow thick in the small, heated space between them. “That’s not who you’ll _beg_ to fuck.”

A wicked pulse of need throbs hot at her core as his words settle in her mind, warring with years of ingrained propriety, of the promise she made to herself months ago: that she would never surrender this part of herself — no matter her sinful desires — to the man who captured her.

“I won’t—” She begins, though the sentence goes unfinished, her breath catching in her throat as Bellamy again shifts closer. A reminder of this unprecedented proximity; sharing a bed Clarke’s never before lain on, Bellamy cradled between her thighs. Barely a wisp of fabric separating them.

“Use your words, princess,” he says, the weight of his gaze matching that of his voice, as it drops to allow a commanding edge — one he’s used to coax her to submission countless times before. “You know what I told you.”

Clarke swallows. “I will not beg you for a thing.”

Another rolls of his hips draws a whimper from her. “No?”

“Please, Bellamy.” Her voice catches with the plea, the word foreign on her tongue in his company. “I can’t.”

“You can’t have what you don’t ask for, princess. Now what do you want?”

The opportunity to leave presents itself once more. To push him off of her and redress with haste, slip back through the celebrations on deck to find solitude in her room. Forget all that’s happened this past hour, as she’s allowed herself to be drawn closer and closer to the words she vowed she’d never speak.

Closing her eyes, Clarke wills herself to find the resolve to move from beneath him, and yet, despite her efforts, all she feels is a single word swell within her. A buried, shameful truth finally dragged to the surface. “You.”

Fingers that have felt every inch of her skin grip her chin, the familiar weight of Bellamy’s body shifting closer. “No getting shy on me now, princess,” he says, wicked thrill running into every word, anticipation seeming to press at the seems of his control, victory never so close for him to claim. “Look at me and say it.”

Despite the direct order, her eyes remain closed, her mouth shut, and, as Bellamy exhibits a rare moment of patience, Clarke’s mind works to reconcile with the utter need of her body. Heated and alight, hunger stretched to every single point of her, it’s almost painful, the extent to which she wants this, craves this — to be filled by him. Not just now, at this particular moment — swayed by the weight of him above her, the remanence of warm release stretched throughout her — or even today. It’s been a shameful ache that, with growing difficulty over the past not only weeks, but months, she’s worked to resist.

And with that acknowledgement, a question comes to her mind: how long can she hold onto this idea of pride, denying herself what she desires, what she craves, in the name of dignity?

If this arrangement continues another month, another year, what is she truly gaining by not allowing herself to claim what it is she wants?

Clarke takes a deep, resolving breath.

There’s fire in Bellamy’s gaze when finally, she opens her eyes to meet his directly.

She’ll be forfeiting the remainder of power she holds over him by surrendering herself completely, and yet, that knowledge is soothed as she recognises exactly what she’ll gain in its stead.

“I want you,” she says, the confession drawing a low, primal sound from deep within Bellamy’s chest, one that reverberates against her own.

“What part of me?”

If it weren’t for the sheer intensity currently shining within his gaze, exuded within his entire demeanour, she’d believe the question’s motivation purely the amusement he finds in her continued aversion to his use of improper language. It’s likely still part of it, as an hour together rarely goes by without his attempts to coax those obscenities from her, though she suspects the prompt now is fed more so by the words he spoke to her earlier: _that same hunger for_ more _, it runs in you just as it runs in me_.

Despite her submission, his hunger is not sated.

He still wants more.

Swallowing hard, Clarke allows herself to abandon decorum, and gives it to him.

“I want your cock, Bellamy,” she says, the words softer than she wishes, as though her mouth unsure exactly how to state them so boldly — though, once they’ve left the recesses of her mind to finally be voiced, to finally be heard, a heaviness that’s coated her lungs with growing weight over the past months eases.

“My cock.” That earlier thrill running through his voice returns as he echoes her words, his hand shifting to thread into her hair. It tightens to a pinch of pain as his gaze blows with debauched desire, as a thrum of heat and anticipation pours from every inch of him. “Beg, princess,” he continues, the rough seduction washing over her, only furthered by the sheer intensity of his focused presence. “Beg for what you need, for what nobody else has given you. For what you hate yourself for craving. _Beg me for it._ ”

The words tug wickedly at her mind, the vehemence in them drawing a response that’s hot and visceral: a feeling that first sparks at her core, and then swells through her entire being, as though fuelled by the summation of all previous attempts to draw her to this very moment — echoing the permission Bellamy’s granted to indulge in her desires, encouraging the hidden parts of her to claim what they need — so expansive that finally, Clarke feels the last of her inhibitions shatter.

“ _Please, Bellamy_ ,” she finally begs, voice close to breaking as something within her snaps, the pressure of propriety all at once boiling over, leaving only a wildness that Clarke’s never before felt running through her veins. “Please fuck me, I want your cock. I need to feel — I need. _Please._ ”

Her incoherence only seems to further Bellamy’s hunger, the weight of his gaze hot on her skin as he watches with palpable delight the moment that she finally gives him the words — the submission — that he’s sought for months.

“You want my cock, princess?” He asks, voice rough and uneven, mouth tugging into an almost feral grin. “Want me to finally fill your pretty, needy cunt; fuck you until you’re good and taken care of?”

“Yes,” she says, a husky exhale, and then, again, “Please.”

And if Clarke had not spent six months learning the particularities of the man before her, she’d almost believe that that same wildness simmering beneath her skin only now sparks alight within him, as he draws himself back up to his knees with a haste that he’d not typically display in her presence, as a frenzied sort of energy surrounds him.

As it is, she can recognise in the thrilled flicker behind his gaze, the tautness of his muscles straining as his hands move to the fastenings of his breeches, that it’s been growing alongside hers this past hour, and only now is his control wavering enough to reveal the fact.

“Yeah, princess. I’ll take care of you,” he says, another declaration, another promise, that fans the flames of the greed bloomed within her.

Tension thickens in the space between them as, darkened gaze locked on her own, Bellamy moves off the bed to rid himself of the remainder of his clothing. And while Clarke’s seen him like this — completely bare, standing before her with an innate air of command — countless times before, it’s with an entirely different appreciation, drinking in the impressive build of him, knowing it will soon be pressed hot and heavy above her, watching as he wraps a hand around the thick length of his cock, knowing it will be filling her over and over, finally.

Slowly, shamelessly, he begins to stroke himself, and Clarke feels herself clench down on nothing, another rush of slick warmth pooling between her thighs. She knows exactly how large his hands are, knows the precise feel of his fingers pressed deep and relentless inside of her, and to see so clearly now — with anticipation of the inevitable building — that they don’t even meet around the entire width of him, only speaks to his size.

“Don’t worry, princess,” Bellamy says, after a drawn moment of weighted silence. Wicked amusement laces his words, and as Clarke meets his eyes, she sees it reflected in his blown gaze too, in the roguish tip of his grin. “I’ll be gentle.”

The words are a complete contradiction to his tone, an obvious falsehood, though Clarke doesn’t respond to him yet, instead watching as, with those same slow, commanding steps that always set her nerves alight, he returns to the base of the bed. Then, climbs back onto it, the warmth of him as he again finds his place between the cradle of her thighs sinking into the blooming greed of her body, flesh on hot flesh, his cock brushing against the most sensitive, aching part of her.

It’s not until then, as she looks up at the man above her, the pirate who captured her, and sees a flicker of something dark and greedy that she can recognise deep within herself, that she finds her voice. “No, you won’t,” she says, and with those words comes another truth: that nor would she want him to.

Bellamy’s gaze flashes in heated recognition, a low guttural noise sounding from within his chest. The head of his cock runs over her folds, and then between them, and Clarke sucks in a sharp breath as she feels the way her arousal slickens him up. 

“ _No,_ ” he agrees, eyes locked on her own as, finally, he guides himself to the entrance of her pussy. “I won’t.”

Then, without another word, and watching her with his wicked keenness, Bellamy holds his promise true as, in one hard, smooth stroke, he fills her completely.

Heat and hunger crash over her immediately.

A breathy moan slips from her mouth.

The slight pinch of pain eases into a sharp sort of pleasure as Clarke feels herself stretch around him, as she experiences, for the first time, this particular sensation of fullness.

“Fuck,” she whimpers, eyes momentarily fluttering shut at the overwhelm, though not before she recognises that the satisfaction that flashes within Bellamy’s gaze is edged with wavering control, with primal hunger. Evidence that she’s not alone in the greed that’s ignited throughout her body, that she’s affecting him to the same heady degree that he is her.

The reminder is intoxicating — that in this moment, their shared need is connecting them on the most primal level — and it’s only furthered when Bellamy draws one of her legs to be hiked up over his arm, Clarke’s other instinctively shifting to wrap around his hips, the combination allowing him to press that much deeper.

“Christ, your cunt,” he says, rough but low, as though without the intent of her even hearing, simply an appreciative curse let slip — the thought of which sends a hot rush of power through her, fuelling the desire to elicit such a reaction again.

Experimentally, her body acting on instinct, Clarke clenches down around him.

An act that, all at once, breaks the lulling moment of quiet adjustment, Bellamy making a sound so low and growling, it’s almost animalistic, his gaze blowing dark and wild where it settles on her before finally, he pulls out and slams back into her.

A strangled moan catches in Clarke’s throat, her hands shifting quickly to find purchase on his shoulders as in an instant, Bellamy begins to fuck her precisely as promised: hard, sharp, and none too gently.

Familiar, warm pressure thrums at her core immediately, as though her body innately recognises that the need now being tended to — born from a deep, visceral place within her — is one that’s been building not only through the six months in Bellamy’s service, but the prior years it was suppressed by her kingdom. Heat and pleasure and thrill that speaks to more than the act itself, but the liberty to engage in it. Expectedly, one that Bellamy engages her in with the same unapologetic relentlessness that he has every other; the fierce drive of his hips into her own, the rough digging of his fingers into the soft flesh of her thigh, evidently not worthy of a moment of acclimation before the broad, warm weight of him presses closer, his chest brushing against her breasts, his mouth shifting to find the curve of her neck, tongue and teeth quick to work at her skin.

Profanities slip from her mouth as Clarke’s overcome by various, exhilarating sensations, so wholly encompassing her entire body seems to vibrate with the heady energy they spark, seems to know instinctively how to draw more: her hips quickly rolling to meet each of his thrusts, her foot pressing into him from behind, to help drive him forward.

As though wanting to give him more of herself, to receive more of him in return.

A thought that would once have shamed her, though now, can be appreciated not only freely, but with a wicked sense of gratitude, that Bellamy’s allowed her to embrace this side of herself. Claim what she desires without guilt.

Now, it’s to let her greed rise to the surface, to meet that of his own. Her hands run over heated skin, feeling the shift of muscle strong from years of labour and piracy — his shoulders thick with it, his broad back and firm ass curved and defined — alight with the same fervour shown by his mouth, marking her red and bruised with the bite of teeth, the keen suck of his mouth. Possession runs in the sharp draw of her nipples between his lips, sending electrifying lines of pleasure directly to her cunt, and grunts of appreciation sound when Clarke answers with the dig of fingernails into his flesh.

Praise is spoken roughly into her skin, such dirty wickedness the responding rush of arousal around his cock is obscene. Though of course it only furthers Bellamy’s applaud, his pace quickening, each stroke continuing to curl tension hot and tight, his hold on her body growing more and more firm.

“Fuck, princess,” he murmurs, low and growling, and Clarke watches with rapt appreciation the untamed primality that’s ablaze within him, that she’s drawn from him. “Look at you, taking me so well. Your royal fucking cunt loves this cock, doesn’t it?”

She nods, her murmurs of affirmation driving Bellamy to pump into her faster, harder. He kisses her neck, her breasts, her jaw, the heady combination of hunger and desire already alight within her growing hazed and searching as she’s guided closer and closer to the precipice, in a build to release that’s never before been quite so potent. The salt-filled air is cut by a newness Clarke now recognises as the smell of fucking, the broadness of Bellamy’s frame presses hot and heavy against her own, surrounding her almost completely, in a way she’s never been before. Moans and gasps and grunts fill the small space between them, broken only by the slap of skin where his hips meet her own. And the sweet, drugging feel of his cock fills her, over and over and over, her nerves growing frenzied with the pool of pressure swelling at her core, until finally, it overflows, and, eyes falling shut, with a broken cry of overwhelm, Clarke comes undone hard and sharp.

Hot, consuming release floods her, pressing at the seems of her mind and body as she’s filled quickly to the brim with pleasure. She feels herself shake with its intensity, cunt pulsing and fingers clenching, hears the waver of Bellamy’s name as it falls with sinful devotion from her lips — the raptured energy he continues to draw by working her through the high with his usual, fervid attention finding outlets that, from the low, roughened words spoken into the curve of her neck, he revels in. 

“That’s it, princess,” Bellamy murmurs, lips soft where they brush against her flushed skin, such a stark contrast to the wickedness of his words. “Such a good girl, coming on my cock like this. Letting yourself get fucked like this. Your cunt is fucking perfect, you know that?”

It’s a seduction that, even clouded with pleasure, Clarke’s sure isn’t intentional, simply the running of a mouth so familiar with debauchery — yet she feels herself preen under the attention, the praise weighted in a way that, even as the intensity of release eases to a warm, heady thrum, remains pulsing with each beat of her heart, greedy in its own right.

Flaring with eagerness when, after handling her with a rough ease indicative of his particular breed of strength — flipping her onto her front, guiding her to her elbows and knees — after sinking into her again, now from behind, to continue his fierce pace, one hand curling hard at her hip, the other smoothing up her back to thread into her hair, Bellamy asks more or her.

“Play with your clit for me, princess,” he says, voice gruff, as close to wrecked as she’s ever heard him before. His fingers tighten to draw her gaze over her shoulder to him, and even through the haziness where remanence of release meets the promise of a new build, she recognises just how close he is to falling apart himself, his muscles straining with control as he continues to fuck her hard and deep, the wildness alight in his gaze blowing somehow even darker. “Last one.”

Despite her oversensitivity, despite her overwhelm, despite having been coaxed to release more times than ever before — enough that should surely have resulted in exhausted satiation — the declaration draws a rush of heat through her.

There’s no doubt in the truth of his earlier assertion, of their likeness in blood: hunger surges within her, alongside that growing desire to please him.

A thrilling combination that runs hot in her veins, that fuels the pool of pressure already swelling again at her core, with each sweet stroke of his cock. Power she rarely holds over him now surrounding her, as again her body moves instinctively against his own, meeting each of his hard thrusts to draw him to his undoing, her fingers shifting to play with her clit to find it with him.

“Fuck, that’s it, princess,” Bellamy growls, gaze flashing with raw intensity as her submission again grants him something new: Clarke pleasuring herself on his instruction. “Play with yourself, that’s it.”

A broken cry catches in her throat and Clarke’s eyes flutter shut. Her fingers work the sensitive bud in a motion replicating that that Bellamy enjoys. Pulses of sharp pleasure meet the heavier thrum blooming with his efforts, and, after such relentless attention, filled already with the headiness of repeating builds and abatements, she knows she’ll barely last a minute.

A minute, however, that’s apparently plenty for Bellamy, his control wavering as the tension she’s intimately familiar with at last seems to draw to its limit within him, evidenced in the stutter of his hips against her own, in the tightening grip on her flesh. In the low grunts that fall sinfully from his mouth, broken by the call of her name, over and over. Softened with a quality of reverence Clarke’s never heard from him before, that immediately draws her attention back to him: to drink in the sight of his undoing greedily, to appreciate the way it mirrors her own, the hot coil of pressure at her centre tightening with each circle of her fingers, each drive of his cock, until, all at once, and barely a moment before him, it snaps, warm, electric release stretching through her right as hot ropes of his come fill her.

Pleasure-filled sounds cloak the room as they’re overcome by a joint euphoria, bodies trembling against each other, his cock pulsing with arousal as her pussy does the same. The knowledge that, whilst they’ve brought each other to this same state before, it’s never been shared like this, enjoyed like this, adding an intoxicating weight to the crests of heat that roll one into another, to the cloudiness of her mind, before the release settles into a softer hum of satisfaction, before Bellamy finally pulls back from her.

Though not to stand and regain his usual composure, say something sharp and wicked to remind her of her place, as Clarke’s come to expect once his desires have been fulfilled. But instead — surprising her — to join her as her body gives way to overwhelm and sprawls onto the lushness of his bed, laying so close to her side she feels the warmth of him sink into her.

It’s that that keeps her from pulling away herself, as she knows she should, his presence holding an unexpected, soothing quality, that eases her back to herself. And as such a long moment passes like that: of unprecedented closeness outside of direct intimacy.

She can’t be sure how long it draws, but eventually, Bellamy does pull away. A shiver runs down Clarke’s spine as his warmth recedes with him, though he’s back before she can properly recognise its absence, the rough touch of his hands meeting her cooling skin as he returns. Guiding her onto her back, though this time, demonstrating far more gentleness than he had earlier, such a shift that when his darkened gaze finds hers, Clarke’s hazed mind quietens to careful attention.

“Open for me, princess,” he orders, voice rough with release, though still soft in the space between them, and despite what she’s learnt of his false tenderness tonight, submission still comes with ease. Clarke’s legs fall open, and she watches with bated breath as Bellamy reveals a cloth she hadn’t immediately noticed in hand, as he shifts closer to press it between her thighs. That same newfound gentleness remaining in his touch as he begins to clean the arousal that’s begun to spill from her, charging the moment with such an odd brand of intimacy Clarke feels something she can’t name swell within her chest. “Good girl,” he says, once he’s done.

Pulling back, he throws the cloth onto the floor and draws himself to his full height besides the bed, the action allowing the perfect vantage to see the blushing effect his praise has on her.

And, watching his expression carefully, Clarke recognises the exact moment his gaze loses its undercurrent of earnestness, and instead flashes with heat as it runs over her form. Drinking her in greedily, almost possessively, the marks he’s branded on her skin seeming to pulse under his attention, a symbol of his claim to her.

“You’re a fucking sight like that, princess,” he says. Familiar wickedness threads into the words, a sinful grin tugging at his mouth, and when Bellamy meets Clarke’s eyes, they’re filled with debauched amusement. “And your tight, little cunt certainly proved as good on my cock as it is on my mouth. Goddamn exquisite. It seems the royals are capable of doing something right.”

While a provocation she once would’ve risen to, now, surprisingly, Clarke finds humour in it, and the desire that surges within her is not to meet his words with indignation, but instead to match the sharp wit of his tongue. It eases her shift back upright — onto her feet to support her own weight after such an overwhelm of release this past hour — complements the boldness that simmers beneath her skin at the realisation that, for the first time in Bellamy’s presence, she feels no embarrassment over her complete bareness. As though what she allowed herself to claim tonight extends past the singular act itself.

As she stands before Bellamy now, that feeling holds power.

“But let us not neglect what we’ve learnt pirates are capable of, either,” Clarke says, her voice still throaty from use, though the effect is thankfully alluring. The cocked brow and sharpening grin she receives in response evidence of the fact, and she continues with a sweetened, patronising lilt: “kindness. Tenderness. _You_ , the infamously ruthless pirate king, soft for your whore.”

The term has lost the weight it bore earlier, the implication it now holds over Bellamy far more remarkable, and it’s clear he recognises the shift. That fire that always sparks when the opportunity to spar with her presents itself grows now within his gaze, as he readies himself for further argument — though Clarke doesn’t allow him the satisfaction of making it.

With a sharp grin of her own, she steps around him, moves through the cabin to where her dress is pooled on the floor. The weight of Bellamy’s gaze is hot on her flesh, and she welcomes it. 

It seems she can wield power just as well as he.

A wicked sort of fascination flashes in his darkened gaze, watching closely, intensely, as she collects her dress and slides it back over her frame, as she gathers her belt and corset, her undergarments within her arm. She feels the responding thrum of warmth at her core, pleased to be holding such attention, that she’s earned such captivation, Bellamy’s interest only growing when next, she picks up the dagger.

“I’ll require your presence tomorrow at dawn, Captain Blake,” she says, the words not planned, coming to her only as she speaks them, fuelled by the realisation that instead of demanding, she should be simply informing. “To begin my lessons.”

“Lessons, princess? You mustn’t be so concerned over your performance.” Bellamy’s grin widens with debauched amusement, and he moves to meet her by the cabin door. Presses close enough that she feels the heat he seems to radiate no matter his state of undress, no matter the coolness of the night, sink into her skin. “I promise, you were an _incredibly_ enjoyable fuck.”

Ignoring both the bait, and the swell of pride that warms her cheeks — no matter that his words were clearly not intended as a compliment — Clarke instead sweetens her smile, and raises her hand just as she had earlier this evening. Lets the blade of the dagger again press at his neck, feeling the slight give of his flesh. The only indication that she’s holding it to him at all, as Bellamy of course does not flinch, watching her instead with that same intensity, that same dark, fascinated pride, as a new brand of heady tension blooms between them. One that draws them impossibly closer, that Clarke feels run through her with warring excitement and trepidation.

“Dawn,” she says at last, a promise of which the implication in not yet clear, even to herself. She does not let that deter her, though, dropping her weapon to instead feel for the door behind her, pulling the bar Bellamy must’ve secured free and tugging it open. The fresh, sea air nips at her skin, its sharpness welcome as Clarke revels in the advantage of, for once, leaving on terms of her own. “I’ll see you then, Bellamy.”

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed, comments and kudos are always much appreciated :)
> 
> a little fic aesthetic is [here](https://bisexualbellamyblake.tumblr.com/post/615203572047593472/you-wrap-your-heart-in-gold-you-tell-me-its)


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